Touch the sky

Taking a break from routine life. This time I have set my sights high. I am going to touch the sky. Wish me luck!

Won't be back for a while. Until then enjoy these amazing pictures from Hemis Gampachen and Tso Moriri.

Coffee Clouds

Coffee clouds in hidden hills,
Are echoes of green and blue.
Like lover boys,
They chase careless cliffs,
To steal a kiss from you.

Mist covers the rising sun,
Day dreams are dipped in dew.
The mellow rocks,
Have lost their voice,
So I sing their song for you.

To a proud girl

I spend dark hours looking at you,
Wondering what’s that wild fire,
Within you, that swiftly spreads,
Whichever way the wanton wind,
Of your willful gaze chooses to blow.

There seated among distant dreams,
And proud ideals of my captive mind,
With a raised chin and resolute lips,
So sure of their royal bloodline,
You turn with perfect ease upon,
The waiting world, cast a cursory glance,
And look at them no more.

Expressions mask with hidden haste,
What the naked face might betray,
For the enchanted world should never know,
What lurks behind those haughty eyes,
Is a little girl that cries, at the dark night,
That prevails on the restless forest,
Deep inside her untamed heart.

It catches me

It catches me like summer fever,
That shakes me from within.

A splash of water on my lost expression,
Washes away the unwillingness,
And equivocation of my limbs.
Then my mind is a flying fish,
Flipping around and tossing about,
The wavy notions of watery thought.

It possesses me like the approaching,
Shadow of someone, lengthened,
By the dreamy, departing day.

Pursuit of meaning

Lost myself,
In the woods one day,
With trees and bees,
That look like words.

Thoughts of mine,
Make distant sounds,
Like fluttering wings,
Of evening birds.

Little forest path that winds,
Bends and curls,
Through shrubs and vines,
Stretches on for miles and miles.

Who knows,
Which way it goes.
Whichever way,
T'will be my home.

The Escapade

Stuck in the starry sky,
A glittering bulb of light,
Overlooks the game of life,
With a silent silver smile.

Little children are we,
Hiding in big bodies,
Pretending to each other,
Reveling in trickery.

From the terrace high,
Look down from the sky,
Little alley below,
Beckons you to go.

Leave behind your innocence,
For another night,
Somnolent city sleepeth,
Time to close your eyes.

(Picture - Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero in "Chilpéric" by Toulouse-Lautrec)

Travelogue - The bumpy ride to Ooty

The bumpy ride to Ooty wasn’t short of thrills and excitement. When we were tired of laughing at my uncle’s jokes we would look outside to see all the patterns the clouds would make in the blue sky. In the distance, the blue hills of Nilgiri gradually began to dominate the landscape giving us a foretaste of what was to come. The average ordinary trees began to be replaced by tall conifers and eucalyptus trees. Lurking in the greenery a pair of shiny eyes would suddenly manifest itself in the form of deer and nilgais. The odd wild elephant might also be found brushing its tusk against the tree bark as though this action were prescribed by a dentist! The big cats chose to stay hidden. The Bangalore-Ooty highway passes through the Bandipur and Mudumalai forest reserves. Although both boast of a decent tiger population there aren’t many who can claim to have seen any. One begins to wonder if this is all a hoax especially when one reads the rather suspicious message on the forest department website that cautions “Wild cat sightings are rare as they are masters of camouflage and prefer to stay hidden”.

The road crept into the mountain and silently curled round it like a woolen muffler. As if on cue, the weather began to feel nippy. And it was peak summer! Spells of light rain lashed against the car windshield but did little to deter us from our quest for a good holiday. Miles and miles of forest are an album of beautiful images, enough to content the photographer in our minds. Every now and then at forest checkposts and state borders, human settlements mushroom awkwardly like patches of weed in a little homely garden. This is where we stopped for tea, grown amply in the slopes of the Nilgiri hills.

At Gudalur two roads leave for Ooty. One of them passes through the sleepy hill station of Coonoor, the other through the unending grasslands of Pykara that carpet the hilly slopes of Nilgiri. We chose the latter. Standing on the slopes at Pykara, one unselfconsciously looks for golf clubs and 18th holes. The view is an endless array of blue-green mountains punctuated by lakes and hilly streams. As our car trundled along the grassy slopes of Pykara, clouds and darkness finally got the better of the sun. Silence, darkness and chilly mountain air put me to sleep until the spluttering engine woke me up finally. It was 10 pm and we were finally in Ooty.

(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Yellow Leaf

My little cousin sister came visiting. She isn't so little anymore. But I feel as protective as ever. These photos are from my trip to the Niligiri Hills. It was really beautiful and I will post more photos soon.

For now I leave you with this slightly melancholic poem ...

A sheepish wind,
Blows a yellow leaf,
From her tenuous bindings,
With an unsuitable tree.

Twirl, twirl,
Like treacherous time,
Unwinds the screw,
That fixed my hopes and wantings.

Captured by my longing gaze,
She duly waits,
For turbid time,
To take its course.

Something Missing

Something is missing,
In the blueness of the sky,
It isn’t blue enough,
In the reflection of my eye.

It doesn’t seem right,
The silent tranquility,
Of my lazy afternoon slumber.
Is it the sluggish apathy,
Of my half-closed eyes?
I’d dare not look,
Nor try to know,
The truth outside.

Something missing in that,
Well-known smile,
That filled so many coffee cups.
Tell me, is it really a smile?

Some eerie feeling,
Haunts my lovely home,
Stolid curtains,
And vacant windows,
Look outside.
Even the wind,
Blows in gasps,
Of frigid apprehension.

Lines

Straight lines and curved lines,
Twist and Turn,
And circumnavigate,
Some curvilinear space.
Sometimes the lines meet,
Sometimes they separate.

They live in an unliving maze,
Of random events.
A spark of chance,
Renders a smile,
A voice,
Even a face.

A turn of events,
Like an expression in a face,
Is a moment of joy,
And long lasting pain,
An undying hope,
That it’s not in vain.

The Trifling Trinidadian

The man from Trinidad appeared one night, out of thin air, and knocked on my door one morning at four. I squinted my sleepy eyes as I opened the door and made out a silhouette amidst all the dogs barking in the darkness somewhere. He wore a grin and brought with himself some good humor and a memory of the good old days. The sun, orange with delight, promptly rose from slumber and spread across my city a shower of golden eagerness.

Couple of omelets later, we realized breakfast wasn’t quite complete without a sip of good old rock music. Of late, my man from Trinidad has been spoilt rotten on Soca and local rum. Bring on the Van Halen, bring on sweet Led Zeppelin. As music played and the guitar wailed, the day began to slip away. I clasped at it with my fist but it still slipped away through my fingers.

Later that night, old friends came to life straight from the pages of my photo album. Laughter rang through the walls of my home, like from a ticklish baby. Conversation flowed at the speed of sound. Before it was too late the friends disappeared into their respective photo albums.

Drowsy eyed I stared at his book of a face and read every line of what had happened since he had sailed away to Trinidad. I thought of telling him that he had left heavy luggage behind. He showed me his picture book. Little images of Trinidadian life. Ah, the decadence, the sunshine and the sultry beaches. He showed me her photo, the one he had ‘limed’ with. She was very pretty. He told me stories and incidents and wove a web of images that are still so fresh in my mind.

Another night, another morning, another lunch, a few words and moments later, the man from Trinidad showed me the last trick in his bag of tricks. He turned around and vanished into thin air.

The Clock - Part 2

There goes the sun,
And here it comes again.
The tiny hand of my clock,
Will tick all day,
And I will stare at it, all day,
And watch the sun go down again.

Then, on a brand new day,
Someday,
When I look to the west,
I will see the sun rise,
And that will be the day,
That the tiny hand,
So bored of routine,
Will actually turn otherwise.

May be that day,
I will go home early,
Come back to work,
And go home,
To have breakfast and wake up.
May be that day,
I will wake up to my sleep,
And sleep off to awakedness,
On a dark drowsy last night.

Then, some other day,
I will rise up in the east,
And the sun can go to work,
Instead of me.
May be he will set,
A few things right for me.
That day,
You will all feel very hot,
And I will make sure,
You soak in sweat.

That day,
I will travel the whole world,
And say “Hi” to many friends,
Spread around the world.
Some of them feel neglected, you know.
The rest,
Mired in their busy schedules,
Have no time to spare.
But they can always,
Look up to the sky,
And find me there.
May be that day,
I will tell them,
All that I have never,
Been able to say.

Later in the evening,
I will promptly fade away,
Into the night,
And never come back.

I wonder,
Will anybody miss me the next day?



(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Clock - Part 1

Does your clock tick faster,
Than mine?
Mine ticks very slow.
It doesn’t move at all, sometimes.

See it’s stuck right now,
Won’t budge. Lazy clock.
Yours must be faster,
I’m sure.

Whoa! Look at yours…
Racing past!
Never mind,
We'll talk someother time.

Lord Bruno

Mighty Bruno,
Lets out a growl so low.
He is lord of his alley,
And wont let anybody pass by,
Without the close scrutiny,
Of his condescending eye.

His only weakness,
A momentary glimpse of meekness,
Is a bowl of milk,
Or a delicious mutton bone.
No sharing with his ilk,
His lordship will have it alone.

The neighbor’s new dog,
Would rather sleep like a log,
For each time he slyly,
Tries to step out,
Lord Bruno quite emphatically,
Barks, “You lout!”

At night is when,
In Bruno’s majestic den,
A primal calling,
Nudges his lordship from slumber,
He starts his incredible yelling,
Rending precious sleep asunder.

(Photos - His lordship, My Beautiful Granny)

Free Spirit

Free spirit,
Like flowing wine,
Take the shape,
Of this glass of mine.

Roll with your fingers,
A mysterious charm,
To your gypsy eyes,
Do I disarm.

A look of wildness,
In your eyes,
A beast within,
For freedom cries.

A dance untamed,
A song so free,
Cast a magic spell,
That enchains me.

Little Red Kite

Little red kite,
Bobbing up and down,
In the big blue sky.

White clouds,
Dodge birds,
That scatter about.

Red kite,
Pulls hard,
At the little boy.

Look,
There goes the little boy,
To the sky.

(Photo - With my school friend Pratik in a roadside restaurant in Singapore.
By the way, if you have a taste for short stories, try http://prawncurry.blogspot.com)

In the café

There isn’t much to say. The voices in the café are distant and incoherent and the music too low. But then the silence is just as annoying to my ears as loud noise can be. Which is why I speak. They are fillers, more like bubbles in the air, which the cartoonist forgot to type words in. But that will do for now.

Her gaze isn’t very reassuring. It is an entreaty and a question. It speaks louder than the bubbles I draw in the air. It makes the sound of a ticking clock waiting to strike the hour. Everytime I look away the clock doesn’t move. It waits for me. And each time I look at it, it starts ticking again.

Even the coffee smells of something else. Somebody has put too much anxiety in it along with sugar. I try to drink it with apathy, but it grips my throat and forces me to consider this and that. I smile at her and pretend that nothing is wrong. And she smiles back at me pretending nothing is wrong.

There isn’t much to say anymore. But there is a little hope. That she will walk out of this café and find herself waiting outside for her. That she will smile back at me through the glass door and perhaps forgive me.

Photo: Vijay at a Starbucks in Palo Alto

Hypocrisy

Non-conformism has been my mantra for sometime now. When it comes to tradition or convention I always ask why. Social mores and customs lie neglected under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. What society thinks of me, doesn’t really bother me. I have always been an outsider anyways, looking at society like one looks at fishes in an aquarium. Every now and then something happens and I plunge into life with a splash and am surrounded by it, but that is so rare. Those rare instances are very memorable, but that’s not what I am talking about.

I am talking about hypocrisy. Of how I pretend to be just what I am not. How non-conformism fades away every time life comes calling. It is there somewhere inside me, in some part of my body. Its physical form is not known, and its chemical composition is ambiguous. It was passed on to me when I was born – like a birth defect. A part of it came from my father and the rest from my mother. And now it is a part of my identity. It is the way I look, I think, I act even though I seldom betray it to the world.

It is my deep love for tradition. For that old house where my grandmother lives. My love of that smell from the kitchen when my mother cooks. It is my respect for my grandfather’s principles and my father’s sense of dignity. It is the memory of that winding staircase that leads to a place called home. It is my love for my mother and all her beliefs and superstitions. It is the smell of incense sticks and earthen pots. It is the sound of dhak (drums) and conch shells. It is my love of art and poetry. It is my love of values. It is my deep-seated respect for tradition and convention.

Photos - The Udaipur Lake Palace

Blue Eyes

Wish I had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Cobalt blue eyes. Blue eyes that look like the ocean. Where waves of emotion would wash against the shore, splash themselves on distant rocks and become droplets and mist. Blue eyes as blue as the sky spread over high mountain peaks that tower over clouds. Proud blue eyes so happy in their blueness.

Wish I had such blue eyes, that you would love me for them. That you would look into my eyes and lose yourself in them. That you would ask no questions. Blue eyes that would enchant you mesmerize you. Blue eyes that you would never forget. That you would dream about. That you would think about all day, so far away and miss my blue eyes. That you would long for them. Blue eyes that you would see each time you close your eyes.

Wish I had blue eyes that would say all that I have to say. That you would look into them and know just what I mean. Blue eyes that say so much more than words. Blue eyes like a thousand pictures. Blue eyes as sweet as music. Like the song of birds at dawn. Blue eyes like rain drops. Blue eyes so blue that they would shimmer from a distance. That you would see them from far away and come running into my arms.

Impermanence

When I was lying there,
Where the stars shone brightly,
And the moon,
Gazed back at me,
A cloud went by.

She paddled her feet,
On rippled water,
The waves rose up,
To greet her,
Before deciding to subside.

A sweet song,
Hummed its way,
Into my ears,
Before it was hushed,
By a careless smile.

A moment passed,
Before my eyes,
I held the moment,
For a while,
And let it fly.

Octopus' Garden

I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade.
-The Beatles

It is a serene feeling, to be among the sea lions at fisherman’s wharf. They make strange noises and slither on top of each other. Noises that sound like grunts or groans. It is a language without words. And hence its meaning is so clear.

I have come to fear words. Words mean different things to different people. That shows how easy it is to misunderstand someone. Sometimes I think it is best to be silent. The language of eyes, smiles and expressions sends messages so universal that they are easily understood. The sea lions make me realize that. I can spend hours gazing at them.

Sweet Simplicity

Will you teach me,
The sweet smile,
Of your soft sensuous lips,
And free my mind,
Of thoughts,
So futile?

Will you rid me,
Of my reason,
And that insufferable,
Miserable question mark,
That doubts,
Everything beautiful and pure?

Will you tell me,
How to live,
How to wonder,
And be amazed,
At this glory,
All around me?

Will you save me,
From my mind,
All its intelligence,
And shameful arrogance?
Will you fill me,
With sweet simplicity?

Hide and Seek

A strange interplay,
Of light and shade.
Leaves cast their shadows,
On my face.
Wind whispers softly,
Into my ears.

Rollover on my back,
Watch the clouds,
Swim about in the air.
In the corner of my eye,
I see you standing there,
But as I turn around,
You are gone.
Who are you hiding from?

A zephyr stirs up,
A bunch of leaves.
Each fluttering,
Shimmering, glimmering,
Golden leaf,
Happy in itself,
Carefree, full of glee.
And then a glimpse of you,
A fleeting glimpse,
Gone in a blink.
Who are you hiding from?
Show yourself to me.

(Photos - A lake in Redwood Shores, Statue of Liberty )

Blinded By You

Can’t get you,
Out of my head.
So dazzled,
By your whimsical ways.

Can’t comprehend,
Your setting me aside,
Yet your earnest longing,
When I am not beside.

Can’t see,
That self-evident truth.
These days,
I am blinded by you.

(Photos - From Empire State Building, Times Square, and Broadway)

Central Park

It’s been a while since I read the book. But I remember that I had sketched vivid images in my mind while reading it. “The Catcher in The Rye” means different things to different people. Over the years lots of people have sworn by this book – people both famous and infamous. The book has had an impression on me too, so add another one to the list (except I am still very ‘unfamous’). I had identified with the book so deeply at one point of time that I would imagine myself as Holden Caulfield walking down the streets of Manhattan and sitting in Central Park by the night.

But then it has been a while. That the images still lay intact in some deep recess of my mind came as a surprise to me. It came back to me suddenly as I walked down 5th Avenue somewhere near the crossing of 51st Street. I was alone on the street, and it was crowded as ever. Snow was melting around me, and the slush on the street made it difficult to walk. And then it came to me, like an epiphany, that it was just around the corner. A strange eery feeling I cannot explain. I walked on delirious with excitement. It had to be there, and there it was. Shining dizzily, dressed in snow. My Central Park.

It was all slippery, sloppery and I flip flopped several times trying to keep my balance. A carriage passed me by, pulled by one of those big hairy horses. A golden statue looked on at me with a sly smile. Children slid by on sleds and parents nodded approvingly. Lovers slipped their hands around each other and stared at the tall buildings in the distance. Freaks jogged in the snow (yes freaks, just imagine jogging in the snow in that kind of weather!). Where was it, where was the lake? There it was almost frozen. Where were they, the ducks? There they were, some of them, cringing in the cold, under the bridge. Is it real? Am I dreaming? My mind was going wild – Penn Station, Edmont Hotel, Greenwich Village, Grand Central Station, Broadway, 5th Avenue, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was all in the book wasn’t it? And where was that “Little Shirley Beans” record that he had dropped that night when he walked out of the Wicker Bar and roamed all around Central Park. Where did you drop it Holden? It broke into pieces. Did you grab them all and take them with you Holden?

Where was Phoebe?

I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around . . . It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all.

There I was, all alone. Like I have always been. There I was walking down the street away from it all. The golden statue looked on. It was cold.